


Dust In The Fire

by olddarkmachine



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Pre-Kerberos Mission, i have a lot of feelings about things we've learned so far from s7, shiro through the ages, so uh spoiler alert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 08:46:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15409305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olddarkmachine/pseuds/olddarkmachine
Summary: Takashi Shirogane is six, and he loves the stars.He loves the way they turn dark night bright, and loves the pictures he can see in them when he connects their different pinpoints.He loves that, no matter what, he knows that somewhere up in the big open sky, there’s a point of light to try and get to.Shiro loves them so much, that he has their glow-in-the-dark counterparts plastered against his ceiling in his own nonsensical patterns that came together in his very own constellations. This way, when he couldn’t see the real deal, he could always find some solace in laying in his rocket ship bed and staring up at his own personal sky.One day, he always tells his grandpa in the same way all kids do, with their voices filled with wander and the promise of a future,I’m going to be up there.His grandfather, like always, pulls him close for a hug, wrapping him within his protective warmth and nodding against Shiro’s hair in the same way any doting grandparent would. With unequivocal love and support.Yes, Takashi,his grandpa always says.You will.





	Dust In The Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, my name is Vicci and I have a lot of feelings about Shiro

_Some only live to die, I'm alive to fly higher_  
_Than angels in outfields inside of my mind_  
_I'm ascendin' these ladders, I'm climbin', say goodbye_  
_This old world, this old world_  
_And when I fall to rise with stardust in my eyes_  
_In the backbone of night, I'm combustible  
_ _Dust in the fire when I can't sleep, awake, I'm too tired_

-[King of the Clouds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wnJNeLiFiaA), Panic! at the Disco

***

Takashi Shirogane is six, and he loves the stars.

He loves the way they turn dark night bright, and loves the pictures he can see in them when he connects their different pinpoints.

He loves that, no matter what, he knows that somewhere up in the big open sky, there’s a point of light to try and get to.

Shiro loves them so much, that he has their glow-in-the-dark counterparts plastered against his ceiling in his own nonsensical patterns that came together in his very own constellations. This way, when he couldn’t see the real deal, he could always find some solace in laying in his rocket ship bed and staring up at his own personal sky.

 _One day_ , he always tells his grandpa in the same way all kids do, with their voices filled with wander and the promise of a future,  _I’m going to be up there_.

His grandfather, like always, pulls him close for a hug, wrapping him within his protective warmth and nodding against Shiro’s hair in the same way any doting grandparent would. With unequivocal love and support.

 _Yes, Takashi_ , his grandpa always says.  _You will_.

***

Takashi Shirogane is fourteen, and he loves speed.

He loves the way it whips his hair around his head and steals the breath from his lungs as it kicks up red desert dirt around him in a dust cloud that marks his path against the unmarked ground.

He loves that it steals everything else away from his thoughts, leaving nothing but the feeling of flying tugging him forward.

Shiro loves it so much, that’s he’s stolen his neighbor’s hover bike in an attempt to capture the sensation of it for as long as he can manage. It isn’t the first time he’s done it, or even the second time.

Or the tenth.

But this time feels different as it pushes the tracks of his tears further down his cheeks and back into his hair line, leaving map lines against the dust sticking to his skin. This time, he’s stolen the hover bike because his grandpa is gone and he needs to escape.

Escape from the house that now feels much too small. Escape from the the memory of his grandfather’s smile, the last he saw before he was ushered quickly from his hospital room.

Really, he just needs to escape the smiles of all the family he’s only ever met in passing because all he ever needed was his grandpa.

Sure, they’re nice enough, but he’s fourteen and at fourteen nothing is ever nice enough.

So he ran.

Correction, he  _flew_.

Speeding through the desert, he breathed the dry air, reveling in the way it cracked his lungs and coated his windpipe in its barren dust, replacing the burn in his eyes with a burn in his throat. It felt the same as the scream he kept caged behind his teeth if only because the sound of the motor would drown it out anyway.

Shiro loves this, but he knows it won’t last. He already hears the far off sound of another motor’s angry growl spinning off the rocks around him and joining his in a strange mechanical song that moves him. Jerking the handlebars to the right, he feels the sharp tilt as the metallic beast falls on its axis in a hard turn that wrenches the bike in a new direction before it falls back onto its belly with a jarring smack.

Metal on hardened earth screech with the impact, and Shiro winces at the thought of the lines that now probably mark the green paint. It had already been chipping already, but he felt bad to help further the process, especially since there was the minor detail of it not actually being his to scrape up to begin with.

As he pulls further into the crack of the canyon, he smiles to himself as he hears the all too familiar hum of just his bike. Now, it’s just him, the shadow of the rock towering around him, and the wind that’s whipping against his eardrums. Just the way he likes it.

Breathing around the force of the air beating back against him as he cut through the air, Shiro focuses less on the ache in his throat and more on the quickly moving lines of sediment that turn his vision various shades of red.

He’s sure he’ll pay for it later when he heads home and the authorities are there. 

 _Again_.

Probably pay for it more now that his grandfather is no longer there to offer the police an awkward smile and explanation. But he’ll deal with that when the time comes. If the time comes.

Right now, though, it feels like he really can fly forever. Like he really can get away.

There’s a thrill of almost excitement that crackles over his heart as it stutters at the thought.

It’s illy timed as he pushes through the other end of the divide, the shadows falling away to blinding sunlight that makes him hiss as he raises a hand to shield his eyes. His speed stutters and peters slightly as he loses his grip on the clutch. Bright spots dance across the skin at the back of his hand as his eyes adjust before he drops it back on the handle in time to see his neighbor watching from where he sat perched on a blue hover bike.

A observant look has his mouth downturned as he keeps his chin balanced on his palm and his elbow placed directly between the handlebars. It’s an easy stance made predatory by the way his eyes watch Shiro carefully, barely blinking as he pumps the brake in an attempt to stop the inevitable collision that stands between them.

Dust, shattered rock and bits of decimated vegetation kick up around them, painting the sky with its rust coloring and dry scent as the motor quiets before falling into the silence of disuse.

Sam Holt is his name, and even though it’s far from the first time he’s caught Shiro with his bike, it is the first time he’s done so alone.

It’s also the first time his hard mask of disappointment cracks slightly to show the soft shine of a smile beneath. Shiro’s mouth dries further as he watches the man push himself off of his bike, challenging him to do the same with a flick of his hand before he he settles himself against the blue metal of his bike.

For a fleeting moment, Shiro wonders if this is some form of pity, and it burns a hole low in his gut as he bites down on the shame that pricks the corner of his eyes.

He doesn’t want pity.

He just wants the burning ache to go away.

All he wants to do, is fly.

Feet thudding gently against the dirt, Shiro pulls himself up into a full stand, eyeing the man with suspicion that seems to only further crack his usual hardness as he laughs.

“Why aren’t you mad?” Shiro asks, ignoring the way his question quakes on his tongue around the watery ache in his throat. His brow arches in a way that makes Shiro think maybe he’s mocking him.

It’s a look that screams  _youth is wasted on the young_.

“What do you want to do, son?” Mr. Holt asks by way of an answer, crossing his arms across his chest. It causes Shiro’s own eyebrow to raise in question as he slowly mimics the position puffing out his chest in an attempt to make himself look bigger.

There’s another meaning to his question that Shiro picks apart from in between the gaps of his words.

What did he want to do now?

What did he want to do in the future?

_What do I want to do?_

“I want to fly,” he finally says as he pushes himself back against his hover bike. Or rather, against Mr. Holt’s hover bike. It’s an act, and Shiro can tell that the older man knows it as he catches the way he examines the cooling lines on his cheeks, and the slight tremble of his lip.

The man can easily point them out, but he doesn’t as he nods in response. A smile fought the corners of the man’s mouth as he bends his neck towards the bike supporting Shiro.

“Get that back to my driveway, Shiro,” he says before he turns his back to him to throw a leg over his own. “I think we have some things to discuss.”

***

Takashi Shirogane is seventeen, and he hates his body.

Hates that he’s finally found a way to fulfill all his promises and the future he always knew he wanted, only for his own body to pull it away from his sight.

Hates that all his mind can seem to conjure is the concerned look in his flight partner’s eyes and the confused sound of his voice as his hand fell away from the steering column of the simulator, effectively crashing them for the first time since their partnership was announced.

Shiro hates it so much that he’s run his arm across the table beside his bed, throwing the food and medicine sitting there along the ground. It’s childish, and it’s stupid, but it feels good if only because the sound of the metal food tray crashing to the ground is better than the crash of his pulse in his ears.

This had all started with a pointed numbness in the fingertips of his right hand that stole his sense of touch for minutes at a time, always coming and going in nonsensical periods. It was never enough to bring up, so Shiro never did, instead opting to ignore the strange thrum that felt like white noise licking along his fingerprints.

Recently, it had graduated to an aching emptiness that made his finger goes limp, unable to move at his command as they fell into a deadened state. These moments, however, had felt even less significant as they came in lapses of seconds that were over in a matter of blinks. Still, he persisted in his silence, throwing himself into his training in order to ignore the barren truth that had been cruelly staring him down this whole time.

That was, until today when his entire arm had lost its function, dropping down to his side as if he was a puppet that had been cut from his strings. It felt like a betrayal of the highest form as he’d stared down at it as it laid limply in his lap.

 _Move, dammit_ , he’d growled as the simulation went black around him before the light flickered on as Adam and Iverson both rushed toward him to ask what was wrong.

 _Move!_  He’d cried as he’d lurched forward just to see it drag lamely over his thighs.

It all ended with a trip to the infirmary and a stern order to remain there until they knew what was wrong.

And now Dr. Holt is there with a clipboard and a downcast look that has Shiro’s stomach flipping because, quite frankly, he doesn’t want to know.

Though, trapped deep beneath the tangles of all his hopes and dreams, he supposes he already knew.

“You’re sick, Shiro,” Dr. Holt says, keeping his eyes steadily downward at the chart that’s clutched so tightly in his hands, his knuckles are a screaming white. His statement is punctuated by a pause burning with all of Shiro’s questions as he finds his breath coming in heaving waves, as if he’d just run a marathon.

You’re sick.

You’re sick.

 _I’m sick_.

“We’ve ordered further tests to pinpoint the exact cause, but Shiro—” amber eyes flash as Dr. Holt finally looks up— “I don’t think you should continue training.”

His anger is swift. A sudden avalanche that cascades over him and crushes every one of his better senses as his teeth clench violently around a vehement sound. He can’t stop training.

He won’t.

All his life all he has ever wanted was to make his way to the stars that dotted the sky like a road map to a home that has always called out to him. Shiro had decided long ago that he wasn’t going to let life and circumstance stop him from it.

But he’d never given much thought to the possibility that his own body would end up his greatest obstacle.

It almost would have been if it didn’t hurt so fucking bad.

“Don’t,” Shiro manages between the grit of his teeth that threaten to cleave his words in half. The telltale sting of tears blur his vision as he focuses what little he has left on Dr. Holt.

“Don’t make me give up flying, sir. I need—”

His sob rips open his chest, the gaping wound swallowing what he wants to say into a bleak chasm.

“I need—”

What? To prove himself?

To be something he’s always wanted to be?

To live a life bigger than himself if only to make sure his name wasn’t forgotten once his body was long gone?

“I need to be up there,” he says finally. The words shake and quiver beneath the weight of his emotions that threaten to snap the bones of his chest.

 _You will_ , he hears his grandfather’s voice answer back as his shoulders start to shake around angry tears that burn the back of his throat. Silence works its way around his shoulders in a tight embrace that wraps tighter still around his neck.

 _I’m going to be up_ , he thinks desperately as he wills his arm to move. Wills his fingers to curl into a fist that he can throw into the mattress beside him.

Honestly, he wills it to do anything to prove the scientist that he’s wrong. That all his tests and the numbers and the very cells of his tissue are wrong and that he’s fine.

 _I’m going to be up there_.

Shiro looks down at his unmoving fingers that remain stubbornly still as splashes of moisture dot his skin.

He doesn’t miss the way he can’t even feel those as they fall.

“Shiro.” Dr. Holt’s voice fills with a finality that seizes his heart and pulls a sharp breath between his teeth as he looks up. Determination glimmers in the older man’s eyes, turning them into two pits of golden fire.

“I’ll figure something out.” Shiro sees the hand that lays atop his instead of feels it, the realization of the lack of feeling sending another stab cleanly between his ribs that’s only soothed by the older man’s promise.

“I’m going to get you up there.”

***

Takashi Shirogane is twenty-two, and he’s basking the glory of a bright future.

What’s more, it isn’t even his own, but he finds himself inspired.

Inspired by the kid with his surly pout who put up the best scores on the Garrison’s recruiting simulator since his very own when he was that age.

Inspired by the way he’d thrown those numbers without batting an eye or breaking a sweat, as if he had always known he was meant to do just that.

Shiro is so inspired by the moment of deja vu that had him seeing his own ghost in the form of the kid as history stretched to repeat itself.

The only difference was though, this time he was the one with the stolen vehicle.

“Keith,” the kid’s instructor huffs angrily under her breath as tires squeal against the burnt desert concrete before Shiro’s car peels out of the parking lot without him in it. He watches as it turns the corner, kicking up clouds of garnet dust before it disappears down the lone highway that cuts through the small town just outside of the Garrison.

His small town.

The similarities are glaring as Shiro recognizes the sudden speed of a much needed escape and he can’t help the small smile that curls itself into the corner of his mouth.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Shirogane, he’s our problem case, I’ll call the author—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Shiro says quickly, cutting her off with the full heft of his smile as he waves her words away, ignoring the weight of the cuff around his wrist as he does so. “I would like his information, though.”

Eyes widening and mouth moving around words that never fully come, Shiro watches as the instructor fails to find the proper reply before she decides on a simple nod. He knows enough to see that she would never understand.

Not many do.

But he does. The lost have a way of recognizing each other.

As her footsteps pull away, her voice fading away as she asks the rest of her class to settle down, Shiro reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Without much thought, he dials in the first number on his speed dial as he returns his gaze to the wholly abandoned road.

The only sign left of Keith and his getaway, are two dark skids from his tires.

“Shiro,” Iverson’s voice greets him in a no nonsense tone, his greeting and inquiry rolled into the bark that made up the two syllables of his name. It’s a question he’s all too happy to answer.

Shiro feels his smile pull wider as he turns it up towards the sky.

“I think I just found our next new recruit.”

**********************


End file.
